


a little more

by obiwanobi, shatou



Series: falling up [7]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Anakin Skywalker Needs a Hug, Crying Anakin Skywalker, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Past Abuse, Raised as Sith Anakin, anakin is just very broken, ex-Sith Anakin, no beta we die like liberty, please proceed with care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:40:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29064492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obiwanobi/pseuds/obiwanobi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatou/pseuds/shatou
Summary: Anakin makes his way down.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker
Series: falling up [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2109726
Comments: 31
Kudos: 328





	a little more

Anakin shivers alone in the nightly winds.

He counted exactly five sunsets and sunrises since the meditation incident. Obi-Wan never brought it up again, and acted like nothing happened. He still smiled and joked with such kind eyes; still asked Anakin about his progress on the newest cleaning droid in their quarters and offered to read to him before bed. Even Ahsoka never brought it up, even though Anakin was _sure_ the Jedi would tell his apprentice about his major offense.

He couldn’t eat. He could hardly sleep. His stomach churned every time Obi-Wan said a gentle thing to him, in that usual melodic lilt of his. His breath halted every time Obi-Wan passed him by and pat his shoulder or brushed his hand. His Master had made him wait before, but never for this long without reminding him of his misdeed. But waiting time was meant to make the punishment more excruciating, so perhaps this is the point all along - that he suffers before he gets what he deserves. Or maybe the smiles are only a beautiful facade before the Jedi discards him for good. Because, let’s be frank: what worth does he have here?

The sky is a lightless inky ocean with not even a speck of starlight to speak of. Anakin turns his gaze one more time towards the lights of the Jedi dormitories. This is what he has to do, to be able to stay, he reasons. This is the only way.

He makes his way down.

The Lower Levels of Coruscant are singularly illuminated by artificial light, if they are illuminated at all. Here where celestial lights never reach, every grease-streaked face is tinted in the neon magenta and cyan of gaudy store signs, or the sickly green of long battery life storm lanterns. The alleys are perpetually murky, a certain stickiness that holds the sole of your shoes whenever you peel your feet from the ground. A cacophony of howling fight dogs echoes from afar, and the light above him flickers. Anakin doesn’t even need to glance around.

Here, there is no shortage of fists itching to throw a punch.

It takes little more than a shove and a cuss, to get himself thrown to the ground. Anakin springs back up onto his feet with ease; by then, several people, of various species and stature, have gathered around him. Some of them reeks of booze, others of blood. From there on, it’s easy.

His knuckles collide with a jaw. Bone cracks under his metallic fist. Force-blinds are no match for him; he has taken down dozens on his own when he was but a whelp under Master Sidious’s tutelage, thirteen years of age or so. That’s not to say they don’t land a good blow here and there, but a few bruises on the face are hardly more than a tickle compared to the burn scars that litter his body. When a sudden blast rings in the relative silence and misses him by a hair, Anakin grins. He whips around and uses the Force to simultaneously yank the blaster from the shooter’s hand and fling the marksman across the street. He opens fire.

Some of them fall, some of them run. Some of them remain, and _then_ run when they see him toss the blaster away in favor of meeting them hand to hand. The more they come at him, shoot at him, the more his blood infuses with thrill. He feels renewed in misery, in the knowledge that this show of abandon will surely earn him the punishment he deserves, where all else failed. His metal fingers are capable of cutting skin, breaking bones, if he so wants, and he does. There’s blood on his hands, warm, soaking the sleeves of his too-soft robes. There has always been blood on his hand; a little more doesn’t make any difference.

When he’s done, Anakin thinks, he’ll be back in the Jedi’s quarters and kneel at the door to his bedroom. He’ll wait there, ready, so that when the sun rises, the Jedi will come and see what he has done. This is not something the Jedi can ignore in favor of delaying his punishment. He smiles and shivers at the same time at just the thought of it.

“Anakin, what are you doing?”

Obi-Wan’s startled voice runs him through like a spear. Anakin stops dead in his movements, wide-eyed. _Obi-Wan? Here?_

His pause promptly earns him a blaster shot to the shoulder. He snaps his head back towards the bastard who shot him, hand thrusted out in a Force-push. The shooter flies through the air and slams against a store sign. Another blaster fires.

Obi-Wan deflects it away from Anakin.

Anakin doesn’t know what’s happening anymore.

He staggers back and back away. This isn’t right. The Jedi should be asleep. He’s not meant to be in this nest of rats and vipers; not meant to know anything of this, to _see_ Anakin in this state—just, just observe the aftermath and dispense his justice. Only the aftermath. Only when Anakin is ready.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Anakin says, his center lowered, his stance battle-ready. The scums around him scurry like cockroaches under the light of a lightsaber, even as Obi-Wan thumbs it off and clips it to his belt. “You should be in bed, not here.”

“The same could be said to you,” Obi-Wan says. Neon lights flicker on his face, his furrowed brows and tight lips, and there’s no light that’s ever been so dull, duller than the spark of dismay in his eyes that Anakin doesn’t want to acknowledge. “I would much prefer you to come back...”

“I have to be here.”

Obi-Wan is unflinching. He crosses his arms not only in a refusal to engage, but also in clear disapproval. “May I ask why?”

It’s the disapproval that makes Anakin’s heart drop.

“ _No_ ,” he grits, breaths stuttering. He closes and opens his hand and warm sticky blood seeps into the cracks of his palm. If there is some semblance of a reflexive surface here, Anakin would look right into it, so desperate he is to see what color his eyes are. How does he look like to Obi-Wan right now? Does he deserve a punishment yet? Does he deserve _anything_?

Because if not, if he doesn’t, if he has no worth and Obi-Wan grows tired of him, he’ll be on his own again, facing the fact that he has lost everything and everyone and has nowhere to go and nothing to be. Hells, Anakin knows he shouldn’t be like this. He should be stronger than this. He shouldn’t be so weak as to fear losing any one man, let alone one Jedi, one stupid Jedi; he shouldn’t care; why does he care so much; he hates it, _he hates it_.

“Why are you here?” Anakin backs away, towards the source of sound - there’s a gambling den nearby, where he could conceivably squirrel himself away. “What are you trying to do?”

Obi-Wan only raises his hands, palm forward. “To get you home. Anakin, you have...”

“Bantha shit,” Anakin spits. They’ve gathered yet again a sizable amount of curious onlookers. “What do you want, _Jedi_?”

“Anakin, please, calm down—”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” Anakin roars, even though that is exactly what he has been seeking. Direct orders, uncomplicated. But not like this. Not with this benevolence. “If you’re not going to answer me then _don’t fucking tell me what to do_ !” He steps back and back, and the only thing the Jedi does is match every backward step of his with one step forward of the exact same length. “Fuck you and your nice little lies; never say one straightforward thing, ever, because you’re too _good_ for it, what a good Jedi. Just say you want to drag me back by the scruff and punish the nine hells out of me.” He gives a teeth-gritted grin. “Say it! I know you want to say it!”

Obi-Wan doesn’t even deign to look taken aback. He says nothing, does nothing, just stands there in that damned little display of harmlessness, so patient, so calm, like he’d be ready to ask for a cup of tea and sip it slowly while watching Anakin any moment now. So that’s how it is, huh?

The bystanders scatter in shrieks when one of them is suddenly lifted in the air, scrabbling at their neck with strangled noises. Anakin’s eyes are not even on them; he glares at the Jedi as his fingers curl. “Say it.”

Obi-Wan finally moves. He stands between the hapless stranger and Anakin. His eyes harden, the shadows on his face sharpen, and his voice turns steel-cold. “No.” He takes Anakin wrist in a vise-tight grip. “Let them go. Stop this, _now_.”

Finally.

Anakin lets go. Not just of the person, but of everything. He drops to his knees with his wrist still in Obi-Wan’s hand, and when it’s released, his arm swings down limply, colliding with his thigh in a dull slap. His head hangs as his eyes squeeze shut. He tucks his tongue back and tries not to wonder what it’ll be this time - lightning or lightsaber burn, electro-whip lashes or an invisible hand around his neck, water running over his face or the cold hard curved confines of the Sphere...

But nothing comes.

“Anakin.”

Obi-Wan’s voice has always been very soft for someone so capable at fighting; even so, this is probably the gentlest tone he’s used yet.

“Anakin,” he says again, and the name feels safe in his mouth. 

Anakin won’t be fooled. His Master liked to lull him into a sense of safety during his lessons, coaxing him to let down his guard just to strike harder after and make sport of his tattered body. He should know better. He should… 

“Anakin, please, look at me.” 

Obi-Wan’s voice is worth a little more pain.

He opens his eyes to find Obi-Wan’s. The Jedi is crouched before him, close enough to touch if he wanted to. But he doesn’t. Anakin can’t decipher the look on his face or even the hand hanging in the air between them that doesn’t have a lightsaber in it ready to strike him or lightning to burn him. 

“That’s it,” Obi-Wan says. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

Anakin doesn’t dare to breathe too hard.

Obi-Wan’s brows knit together. “I could not understand why you would leave in the midst of a night to do this. Where have I wronged you?” He sighs again into silence. “You scared me, Anakin.” 

_A punishable offense._ So here’s Obi-Wan Kenobi, listing his sins before punishing him, ordering him to keep his eyes open in wait of the punishment to come. Anakin stares at him, eyes stinging, waiting. But instead of the burning of a blade on his back or a slow Force-choke around his neck, calloused fingers find his wrist. They move lightly above his skin, cautious, taking their time as if to unravel the tension under his flesh, wrapping around his hand. Anakin braces himself for the twist, for the sudden deceit and pain. Instead, Obi-Wan's thumb starts rubbing slow circles on the back of his hand.

“May I take care of you, then?” Obi-Wan asks, and something in his voice breaks a bit. “You’re hurt, dear one.”

These last words are like a saber to his heart. Anakin never thought Obi-Wan could be this cruel.

“Don’t,” he chokes out his last defiance, as his fists start trembling, “don’t call me that.” He bows his head deeply and shuts his eyes and goes as still and silent as possible. His insides are curling in on themselves, yet he doesn’t dare move. He’s nearly holding his breath, as the air moves around him. Fabric rustles, and he can feel arms drawing around him, and _This is it_ he thinks, this is it, the pain will come and he will finally be released—

Obi-Wan pulls him to his chest.

This is not right. This is not real. This can’t be true. Nobody could be this gentle; nobody could forgive just like that, not with the insults and insolence and innumerable unpunished offenses old and new. Anakin does not get touched like this. He should not. His shoulders are squared stiff and his muscles constrict so hard that he starts shaking. He can barely breathe, because every breath knives into his tightened throat. His nose stings and his eyes burn and he gasps for air, only to take in a sharp sob.

“Please don’t… Please don’t do this to me.” Anakin gulps, clutching his own torso, fearful of the sudden warmth and tenderness. “Just—just punish me, I deserve it, please punish m—” He nearly bites his tongue trying to suppress the next sob. Tears always angered his Master. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I beg of you, please stop making me wait, Master, I’m sorry, please, just…”

Obi-Wan pulls back only to take Anakin’s face in his hands. Thumbs wipe over his cheekbones. “I’m not your Master,” he hushes, brushing hair back from Anakin’s forehead. “I’m not going to punish you, Anakin.”

And then Obi-Wan does the unthinkable: he lowers his outermost mental shields. He lets Anakin in, on his own. His concern scatters across the expanse of his psyche like gemstones, like blinking stars. His words are as true as the moon. _I would like to bring you home. I would like to keep you safe._ Obi-Wan’s hand cradles the base of his skull. Lips press into his hair. _I would like to see you smile._

Anakin’s mouth falls open in a wail. He smushes his face against the crook of Obi-Wan’s neck and soaks his robes with tears. He cries his throat raw and parched, cries until his jaws tremble, his teeth clatter, his head goes light. He lets go of his own flanks and bunches his fists into Obi-Wan’s robes instead. Obi-Wan’s arms are wrapped firmly around him like a promise.

Anakin hiccups one last time, and sags.

—

Ahsoka paces near the Temple’s gate. The Temple Guards glance at her every once in a while, and she’s a little bit annoyed, maybe, but that’s nothing compared to the worry brewing in her chest right now. Dawn is peeking at the horizon, and her Master is nowhere to be found.

“I knew this was a bad idea,” she mutters to herself, flooding her and Obi-Wan’s bond with the rightful amount of indignation. _You should’ve taken me with you, Master!_

She’s surprised to feel Obi-Wan’s response immediately. A brief sense of reassurance, and a nearness - he’s approaching. His presence is too mired in concerns for her to make out the exact message, but she gets the sentiment. Her worries go through and mirror his own. They’re probably worrying about the same thing, then.

Ahsoka knows Obi-Wan is back before he’s even within sight. Yet the sight of him still suffuses her with equal parts relief and amazement. In the light of dawn, her Master marches into the Jedi Temple, a gentle silhouette against the rosy sky. Limp in his arms, head pillowed on his shoulder, is Anakin No-Name, formerly known as Darth Vader, currently unconscious.

“Let them both in.” Ahsoka tells the Temple Guards, showing them her datapad. “Words from Master Yoda.”

Obi-Wan looks at her gently, mouthing a soft thank. Her steps fall beside his, and for a while there are only the sounds of their footsteps echoing in the great hall.

“Master.” Her eyes flick to Anakin, noting his red, puffy eyes in stark contrast with his ashen face and… are those _dried tears_? There is blood on the ex-Sith’s robes and on her Master’s and she sort of really wants to know which is whose. “Is he alright?”

“More or less,” Obi-Wan answers. Ahsoka frowns at him, yet he seems too deep in thoughts to notice that. She sets a hand on his arm.

“Master, the Council has…”

“I know, young one.” Obi-Wan pauses when Anakin chuffs, shuffling his arm to rearrange the ex-Sith in a more comfortable position, and continues on his way. “I would prefer you to go back to sleep. This is my responsibility to bear.”


End file.
